On Route to the Bottom
by KnightRooked
Summary: "The night she disappeared, I was on route to the bottom of a bottle." Hook and Alice have a terrible fight which sends Hook looking for comfort in the familiar arms of rum. A few hours away couldn't hurt, could they?


This story was originally posted as a four-part series on Tumblr, but I figured I could go ahead and put it all together here. A decent amount of angst, some creepy Gothel (so if that's a problem for you, as you have every right for it to be because... eww, feel free to click away), and overall sadness.

* * *

Sixteen years. She had been held for sixteen long, occasionally wonderful, but wholly claustrophobic years. Her father had attempted to help when the tower around her became too stifling, but there was no helping the constant pressing in of the walls around her. Every day they seemed to inch in a little more, suffocating any life she had once felt.

Her father could usually breathe in some life back into the prison they called home. Today was different. Today she _felt_ different. A loss of something, or at the very least a diminishing of it. Hope, she realized.

Sixteen years of her father reading books as she studied languages, mathematics, geography across all worlds. Sixteen years of her aging, graying hero meeting with any enchantress or wizard he got wind of as she memorized constellations, learned to sword fight, and practiced tricks she knew she'd never get to play outside of her tower. He tried everything he could to find a counter-spell for what kept her trapped, and still nothing worked.

It was getting to be too much. Too much of being lonely in spite of all the attention her father tried to give her. Too much of him trying to become friends with the locals, for him to persuade those who didn't sneer at him to bring their children to visit his Alice, only for them to sing songs at the base of her prison to torment her.

 _Alice, Alice, in the sky  
Alice, Alice, up so high  
Does she smell? Does she cry?  
Why's she there? I wonder why_

Stupid children and their stupid bloody rhymes. It wasn't even clever. _If I threw some blasted eggs at their faces from up here, that would be clever,_ she thought.

After that, he had spent dozens of gold pieces to have wizard with a sliver of mercy to make the villagers forget about them, to cast protection charms around their home and the surrounding lands. Alice had cried all night after that, and all her papa could do was hold her and tell her he knew children could be cruel. She didn't ask how deeply personally he knew this, and he didn't feel the need to tell her.

So, now when he came home with more hope than she could stomach, she was tempted to lash out. Often, when he knew her sharp words or sarcastic remarks were from a place of deep, understandable frustration, he was stern but gentle. In other times, when the summer heat mixed with cabin fever, her teenage hormones, and his pining for the sea, it spelled trouble. Raised voices weren't something either of them had been used to—him since she was born, her in her life. Yet, these days they found themselves moving closer to shouting at one another when her dwindling hope began to resent his lack of help. When his sense of failure began to take a toll on his nerves.

And then, in a horrible, misting evening, everything went into a spiraling hell. Mary Ann, her beloved rabbit, took her last peaceful breaths in her arms, and something inside Alice broke.

"Love, I—" her father started, and the gentleness of his voice set her on edge. Everything was wrong. Everything, everything, _everything_.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"What?" He let it out in a soft, startled breath. Every inch of her screamed to take it back. She needed to apologize, to say it was her incredible grief that made her say the first horrible thing that came to mind. But her pain was too much, and she had no one in sixteen years to take anything out on but him. And he was so steady. Such a pillar of kindness, of strength and survival. Something told her he would get through this and all will be well. She just needed to let it out somehow or she'd explode.

And so, she did.

Her feet stamped hard on the floor as she rose up, for once towering over her kneeling father. She saw he had been preparing to comfort her, to collect her in his arms. Something in her found this laughable. Something else found it enraging. Small pieces, terrible pieces, but they were loud enough to quell the rest of her begging to be taken into his embrace.

"I said I hate you!" she burst. He reeled back as if struck, and her booted feet carried her forward. "I hate it here! I hate everything about this place! I HATE IT AND I HATE YOU! WHY CAN'T YOU HELP ME?! WHY?"

Killian looked at his little girl, his raging Alice, and found he couldn't breathe. All the fear of every second of her life came swimming toward him. It was his fault she was here. It was his fault he wasn't good enough or strong enough to get her out. Killian Jones was a survivor, but he was a terrible excuse for a savior.

"Alice…"

"No. No! I want to be left alone. It's what you want, right? Keeping me up here alone?! KEEPING ME HERE! I bet you like it, don't you? Me safe and away from EVERYONE!"

 _What am I saying?_ part of her screamed, her thoughts running wild. A nagging in the back of her mind knew he wasn't the one she was angry with. Not by a long shot. But her mother wasn't there. No one else was there. And now Mary Ann, her treasure and companion, wasn't here either. Only he was. Her strong pillar, her hero. And she needed so desperately to be angry with someone. He would forgive her, she knew.

Before he could take a breath to whisper another word, she screamed again, "LEAVE ME ALONE!" before storming to her room, leaving her broken father with the remains of her only friend. Immediately, she collapsed against her door, sinking to the hardwood floor and sobbing all she had into her knees.

Killian Jones, formerly fierce pirate captain, couldn't help but listen to the deep, retching sobs of his beloved daughter. As she broke to pieces in the next room, he felt himself shattering. If she needed him away, he would grant her wish. Not forever—not even for the night, but for now. He could give her peace for now as he struggled to find his own.

It had been years since the pull of rum had felt like such an iron vice. Since his daughter came into his life, the occasional indulgence was all he'd allow himself, usually when she was in bed after a particularly hard day and it helped ease his nerves. Now it was like sixteen years' worth of withdrawal had reared its ugly head. Killian slammed the shot glass down, gesturing for another.

"You feeling alright there, pal?" the barkeep asked. Rick, he recalled, from the years he had spent trying to befriend the villagers in order to get Alice some company. Now, after the taunts and subsequent magic to make them all forget, the bastard and everyone else didn't recognize him. The memory made him sneer and simply gesture for a double.

"I think you've had enough, buddy," said Rick.

Faster than the barkeep could think, Killian grabbed his collar and pulled him an inch in front of him, snarling alcoholic fumes into the man's shocked face. "I'm not your bloody _pal_ or _buddy_ , and I will damn well tell you when I've had enough. Now, if my gold is good, give me what I've ordered."

If the man before him had looked any less homicidal, Rick would have told him exactly where he could shove his gold. Only, there was something in this man's eyes, something awful that burned holes into his irises, and the man found himself complying in spite of himself. Whatever this stranger had been through, he could drown himself in alcohol for all he cared.

And Killian half wanted to. His darling girl, the light of his very dark life, hated him. _Hated_ him. He had failed her in every sense of the word. She had every right, he thought, to despise his very existence. He had let her down, had built up years of hope that they'd escape that prison together and, yet, there she was still stuck. She had never felt the grass on her feet, or the cool water of the nearby creek. She had never picked her own flowers, ridden their horse, or even come face-to-face with another person since her vicious mother had evaporated from their tower window.

The memory of that woman and what she did to him, to them, had him down the double of rum in a single gulp. He should have fought her. Should have done _something_.

Then, just as he was about to raise his hand to signal for the barkeep to give him another round, his own voice from years long past sounded inside his head.

 _A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets._

What was he doing here? She could hate him, she could kick and scream at every part of him for all he cared, but he had to be there for his Alice. If he didn't fight for her, he deserved whatever he got.

* * *

It felt like hours before Alice ran out of tears. Her heart kept clenching, sending more waves of tears running down her face. She thought a time or two that if she didn't stop she'd drown in them. Then, in the silence of their tower, she found enough nerve within herself to steady her breathing and collect the pieces of herself that felt so all over the place.

It was another few minutes before she realized it was too quiet. Usually she could still sense him after a disagreement—she and her father had never _fought_ before, she thought sadly, quickly trying to brush the sickening realization aside before she fell into another sobbing spell. She rose with a jump, making herself dizzy, her vision momentarily going black from the force.

"Papa?" she called, opening the door and peeking into their shared living space. Mary Ann was now gone, and she was torn between sadness and relief that she didn't have to gaze on her once more. Any relief was short-lived when no answer greeted her. "Papa?"

Again, silence save for a gentle breeze.

"Papa!" she started to panic, racing around their home with all the frenzy of a scurrying mouse. As the seconds ticked by, each one feeling like hours to her racing mind, Alice began to think of every bargain the pirate in her blood could possibly think of. She would take any punishment he was willing to dish out, do any chore or any boring assignment he felt the need to give her if he would _just answer her_.

"PAPA!" she screamed, the tears she thought had finished now coming back in full force. "I'm sorry! Papa, PLEASE!"

A sound erupted behind her. Relief, warm and heavy, wrapped around her she turned around, hoping to see her father's strong yet gentle face there to greet her. She would even accept angry, livid, _anything_. It just had to be him.

"Hello, little girl," a different voice greeted. All of the warmth that had crept into Alice's muscles froze as she stared at the braided stranger standing at their window. "It's been quite some time."

She had heard the story, of course. Short and vague, so unlike the bedtime stories she had grown up with. There were no voices, no dramatic gestures for this tale. It was one, Alice knew, her father didn't like to go into. From the way his voice dropped and his eyes averted hers, she could sense a pain he wasn't willing to mention, either for his own sake or hers.

Knowing her papa, it was likely the latter.

The tale of her mother never changed, was never embellished or even spoken with any tone of fondness. She had been a selfish trickster of a woman and, though he would give anything to change his dear Alice's imprisonment, he wouldn't trade having her for all the world. Regardless of who her mother was.

Alice had asked once how they met, if they ever loved each other, why she left. Those answers left more to the imagination than she would like. He had climbed her tower, they had an evening together, and she left because she was cruel. That was that. When she pressed for more, she received a stern look and a change of subject. The only thing he had ever added over the years was how she looked.

Braided, strawberry-blond hair. Arguably pretty, but the ugliness on the inside made it hard to see the beauty on the outside. Her papa had repeatedly stressed that, no, she didn't resemble her at all. Instead she looked more like himself and his own mother, and for that he was infinitely thankful.

With Gothel standing there now, Alice could see her father told her a half truth. She was beautiful, and Alice could see traces of herself in the features of the witch now leering at her from their window. Perhaps she did look more like her papa and her namesake, but she couldn't deny the family resemblance before her.

"Do you know who I am?" the witch asked, slowly closing the space between them.

Alice nodded. A wealth of emotions bubbled in her stomach, and all she could do was stand there staring at this woman who had made her and abandoned her, abandoned her papa.

"Well, at least that saves us some trouble," added Gothel. She smiled, then began to wander their living room space as if she owned it, touching things here and there. "Love what you've both done here. Quite the cozy little set-up you have."

"What do you want?" asked Alice through clenched teeth.

"Well, that's no way to speak to your mother, darling."

"You're no mother."

Gothel sneered at her. "I see you've inherited your father's self-righteous temper."

Alice circled the room, careful to remain as far from the witch as possible. She could feel a trembling anxiety creeping up her limbs, but she swallowed a lump in her throat and struggled to remember everything her father had taught her. She could protect herself. She could fight like hell and, come what may, she wouldn't give this woman the satisfaction of having her fall apart.

"There's no need to be so combative. I just came to have a little chat."

"About what?"

Gothel's grin widened into something unholy, her teeth bared like a savage cat. She sauntered to the leather chair in the center of the room and sat with a sort of regality. "About your heart."

* * *

Even with age taking its toll, Killian couldn't remember a time he had run so far so fast. He made quick work of untethering his horse from its post and galloping like hell was at his heels. Even if they descended into another screaming match, even if his Alice still hated him with all her heart, he had to get back to her. He had to assure her that, no matter what, he loved her with all of his.

By the time he reached the stables, a cold dread washed over him. Something was wrong. Well, everything was wrong, but there was something more he couldn't put his finger on. Something more than his raging child and this open wound between them. He bolted the rest of the way back to their tower, his aging knees aching but his determination driving him onward.

The adrenaline that rushed through Killian's veins allowed him to ignore the pain as he climbed up their tower with a speed he had not had since his spryer younger days. Once his eyes caught sight of the vision through the window, he felt his blood freeze and a piercing wrath fill his heart.

"Ah, honey, you're home," said Gothel, sitting pretty in his chair. "I was just having a chat with our daughter. She certainly has quite the spirit, doesn't she?"

"Alice," Killian started, not tearing his eyes away from the witch. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Papa." He heard the tremble in her words, a mix of anger and unease, and it made the rage in his chest wind deep into his stomach.

He swallowed down his rage, continuing to stare a hole into Gothel. "What the hell do you want?"

"Straight to business, I see. You used to be so much more… eloquent."

"You can answer me or I can gut it out of you. Your choice, _witch_."

Gothel rose and strolled over to him, taking her time and drinking in the frustration painted over his features. "Strong words, pirate," she said, getting so close to him he could feel her breath on his face. "You know something else that's strong? Blood magic. So interesting in how it works. Powerful if used correctly. Problematic if used in others."

She placed her hand on his chest, and he winced at her touch, remembering the violation he felt all those years ago. Alice jolted nearby, ready to grab the closest object and run her through, but Killian raised his hand and halted her in an instant.

"Stay back, love. Just stay back and everything will be alright."

"Yes, _love_ ," mimicked Gothel, her eyes still trained on Killian's. "Do as your dear papa says. Now, where was I? Ah, blood magic. You see, there's something coming, dear. Something I've been planning for, for a very long time."

"And what the blazes does this have to do with us?"

"There are certain ends that need tying up. See, the only magic stronger than blood magic is that of true love. With both of them used together, well, that could cause quite a thorn in my side. For how long I've been waiting for what's to come, I can't have the chance something pesky like that could ruin it." Then, the hand on his chest pierced through, sending nauseating shocks of white hot pain searing through Killian as she pulled out his heart. Alice screamed nearby and she flew into a frenzy, grabbing the closest item she could find—their fireplace poker—and racing toward Gothel.

"Uh uh," said the witch, holding out her free hand and freezing her daughter instantly. "Can't have that, darling, now can we?"

Turning her attention back to Killian's heart, she then removed a dagger from her belt, its mother of pearl handle glistening in the low light of the tower. Kilian braced himself for the pain to come again, for death to wrap its tendrils around him as she raised the blade over his heart. He turned away from the scene to look at his daughter, his darling Alice, and smile.

"Papa!" she cried out, making streaks down her crumpled face.

"It's alright, Alice. I love you so much," he replied.

"Oh, stop being so dramatic. I'm not going to kill you," interrupted Gothel. "I just can't have a pesky thing like True Love's Kiss to interrupt what I have planned. Not with my bloodline involved, especially. Besides, killing you would be such a waste. Even gray you are quite striking."

She placed the blade over his heart, traces of the poison she had dipped it in already working its magic. A new kind of pain lit into Killian's chest, making him feel like he was going to be crushed or explode all at once. He doubled over, yelling and trying to swallow back the worst of his screams for his daughter's sake.

"Stop it!" screamed Alice, struggling against the freezing spell with all her might, managing to take a few agonizing steps forward. Before she could get more than a meter toward them, Gothel slammed Killian's heart back into his chest. All at once, his yells stopped and the pain settled down to a dull, tingling ache.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"What did you do to me?" he asked, absent-mindedly placing a hand over his replaced heart.

Gothel gave him a toothy grin, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. Killian pulled back as if he had been slapped and he reached for the rapier at his hip.

"No, no, none of that," said the witch, freezing him in his tracks. "You'll live. Likely. There's one little trick with this poison. Harmless as long as you abide by one simple rule."

Her smile grew more into the bared fangs of a savage beast. "You'll live as long as you and our dear girl don't get too close to each other. It's difficult to have True Love's Kiss if you're dead before you reach each other."

Killian Jones had murdered countless people. It was a fact he wasn't proud of these days, but a fact nonetheless. Mostly split-second incidents brought on by a bout of rage and the gnawing emptiness that had settled in his stomach for centuries. Yet, the instant he set eyes on his Alice sixteen years ago, that emptiness evaporated and with it any desire to gut anyone.

Except for _her_.

Gothel continued to smile at the frozen pair of them, taking in the site of their horrified faces before she leaned in to kiss Killian on the cheek. Gods, it would take everything he had not to burn the flesh off his face to rid himself of the sensation. It brought him back to that night all those years ago when she had transformed before him, changing "quite a night" into something far fouler.

Into something that had kept him from wanting to get too close to anyone, from ever wanting to truly open himself up to anyone but his Alice.

"Don't look so upset. Like you said before, we both get what we want. You two get to live and continue living your small lives here, and I don't have to worry about the chance of you ruining any of my plans." She raised her hand to rub the stubble on his face, gave him one more wink, and left without so much as a look back to her daughter.

Once Gothel had disappeared in a puff of smoke, father and daughter felt the invisible binds holding them give way. In a heartbeat, Alice rushed to be near her father. She was two steps in when they both descended into screaming.

Killian reached for his heart, a pain unlike he had ever felt pumping through it. It was going to burn out of him if it didn't explode first, ripping his body to pieces with it. Alice doubled over, holding her left wrist and staring down at a rising red welt just at her tendon. Instinctively she took a step back, and the worst of their agony died away leaving only a residual ache and an almost more agonizing realization.

"Papa!" Alice cried out, her hand flying to her mouth to keep in the sob that threatened to escape.

"Alice…"

He had no words of comfort. Nothing to offer that could help either of them process what was happening, what _had_ happened. What couldn't happen anymore.

"I'm sorry," she burst. "I'm so, so sorry! I didn't mean any of it! I swear, I didn't!"

"I know, love. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left. Oh, Alice, this is all my fault."

"No!" she shrieked. "Don't say that! It's mine! I was awful! Oh, Papa, I'm so sorry!"

At the sounds of the other's anguish, both made a move from years of muscle memory to rush to their side, but even their twitching muscles sent hot knives into her wrist and his chest.

When the searing heat on her wrist dulled once more, Alice's mind flooded with new terrible truths. Her papa, her whole world, the pillar of strength she had relied on all her life and the person she knew would always be there for her, couldn't come close to her. Couldn't hug her to his chest, couldn't put his secure arms around her and whisper to her that everything would be alright.

Nothing was alright. Alice collapsed to her knees, numb. Her ocean-blue eyes, so like her father's, searched into nothing for who knew what. An answer? Something to comfort them? Some reason why this day had gone so tragically wrong.

"Alice, darling, we'll figure this out," her papa said, his gentle voice breaking what levy was holding her together. She wanted to be strong, she wanted to make up for everything, _everything_ she had said. To make their world right again. Except she couldn't see through the black fog now wrapping around them. Her world as she had ever known it was over. Even if they figured something out, some way to make this new reality tolerable, her world was upside down.

Killian too was at a loss, standing there dumbly waiting for some stroke of genius that would allow him to fix this. Fix what he knew would never have been broken if he had been a good father and just stayed with her. If he had just protected her. He rubbed a callused hand over his eyes, attempting to stem the tears that burned in their corners.

Sixteen years. Sixteen long years, and he had never been at such a loss of what to do. Never felt such a complete and utter lack of hope.

"I'll fix this," he uttered. He hoped an ounce of her believed it.

* * *

Rogers sat out in the patio area of Roni's bar, working through some paperwork in between sips of black coffee and a newspaper crossword. Over the last few months it had become his favorite place to work. The company of Roni and, occasionally, Henry helped lighten the days after his back-and-forths with the jaded officers at the precinct and his treacherous bastard of a partner.

Something about Roni felt familiar, and they had settled into a comfortable place between ribbing each other and offering quiet support. Henry was ever-eager to help whenever he saw Rogers struggling with anything between a crossword and a case. The detective wondered if this grew from the younger man's experience in foster care and subsequent desire to be close to someone. Perhaps Rogers simply reminded him of a figure from his turbulent past.

As much as he was growing to care for those two, it was the tell-tale footsteps behind him that had him smiling the most. She rested her forearm on his shoulder, leaning her weight on him.

"Afternoon, Detective."

"Tilly," he greeted.

Usually he wasn't the biggest fan of personal contact. Something about someone he didn't know, someone he didn't _trust_ , touching him at all sent shivers up his spine. Yet, Tilly leaning there didn't bother him in the slightest. A small hint of it even felt natural. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

"You ready to lose? I do like the idea of a third time in a row. Something about a nice, odd number," she teased.

"Boast all you want," he started, putting his work away as she began to set up the chessboard he had purchased them. "Things may not be looking good now, but I'll fix it."


End file.
